


gratification

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Needy Dean, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 10:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11355879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: It's not a compulsion. Dean just likes it.





	gratification

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indefinissable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/gifts).



He’s not—desperate. He’s _not_. Christ. It’s not like that.

After they staggered back together, after all the mess of Stanford and everything that came with it, it was weird. Both grown up, much as Dean sometimes struggled to see it in Sam. They’d fooled around, when they were kids, confused and lonely and—whatever. The ship sailed a long time ago and it turned out, when he finally had Sam back, that Sam didn’t hate him for it. Bonus. That first time, that chilly December night in Iowa when Sam touched his hand like that, when he put his palm to Dean’s cheek like _that_ , Dean hadn’t needed any convincing before he went down on his knees, right down on the thin nasty carpet in that awful brown motel room, and he opened right up. He’d missed it—god knows, he’d missed it—but he hadn’t known how much until then. Sam taller than he remembered, _bigger_ than he remembered, but oh that familiar taste, that smell that meant _Sammy,_ the ache in his jaw that seeped down to his gut, to his bones, settling somewhere behind his heart just right—Sammy’s big hands grasping at his face and pulling at his short hair, his voice up above so familiar gasping _Dean, Dean, I’m gonna—I’m—_   It’s all Dean needed. He couldn’t believe he’d lasted three and a half years without it.

Dean knows it’s weird. It’s beyond weird, but he’s gone past caring. How could he, when he had Sam. Open, and willing, and watching him with that so-familiar look in his eye and, more than anything, _there_ , there with Dean, a miracle he’d never be worthy enough to deserve. Dean wouldn’t go to his knees for less.

They traded, back and forth, at first. Jerked each other off in the shower after long hunts. Sam spread Dean out on the bed and blew him slow, teasing like the little shit he is. When they fucked for real, sometimes Sam would ride him and god, yeah, Sammy’s face when Dean was inside him, the way he threw his head back and his thighs worked, yeah. Amazing. But—when it was the other way around—

Sam’s big, is the thing. He’s big, and he’s—he’s _thorough_ , maybe is the word. He works Dean open slow on long, patient fingers, moves into him slower, and Dean just—he doesn’t even know how to describe it to himself. It’s like something just… settles, deep inside. With Sam on top of him, in him, with that weight pressing in and feeling so stretched apart, Sam’s hands and Sam’s breath coming fast against his ear, barely audible over the pounding of Dean’s own heart, those deep thrusts ( _familiar, because Sam learned to fuck by fucking Dean_ ), the almost selfish rhythm slamming in and in and in, with Sam holding him so gathered in close—god. Dean doesn’t think he can be blamed for wanting it more than anything else. Sam doesn’t seem to mind.

There’s something just—nice about it, too. Calming. He loves fucking, loves the pulse and clench of it, the knowing of each other, and, while he’d cut his tongue out before he ever said it out loud to Sam, he likes how close it makes them. What he loves more than anything, though, is—he just likes to have Sam in him. Likes to make Sam come. It’s like taking care of him, somehow. Whether he’s on his back or his belly, on his knees holding himself up against the headboard on trembling hands, whether he’s teary-eyed and stretched and gasping with his throat knocked sore-open—he’s filled. A missing piece locked into place.

They’ve been driving for days, this time. Literally, moving from a werewolf hunt just north of Seattle all the way to something Sam found that’s probably witches in Sarasota, and Dean’s kind of… antsy. He’s been driving smooth, nine over the speed limit so they won’t get tagged, and he’s got the Black Album pumping loud over the speakers, no matter that Sam, the bitch, actually groaned aloud when he slotted it into the tapedeck. It’s past midnight and they’re somewhere on the 77 in Arkansas, creeping up on the border with Tennessee, and Dean’s not really tired, he could go longer, but. He just. He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, swallows. Sam’s sleeping, tucked in against the window, and there’s no other cars on the highway and the lighting’s bad so Dean can’t really see much beyond his shadow, but god. It’s been a while.

He pulls off the highway, ends up on one of the little county roads. Farm country in the dead of night, more private than a mountain cabin. Sam wakes up when the car turns off, sits up fast and rubs over his face. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dean says. His mouth’s dry.

“Morning,” Sam says, voice thick. He gets out of the car, stretches, and Dean can see him now, in the sudden moonlight. “Sleeping here tonight?”

Dean licks his lips, says, “Just pretend it’s the Hilton,” and Sam sort of snorts a laugh, moves off a little toward the irrigation ditch and it’s so quiet out here that Dean can hear the jingle of his belt, the zipper. The flat wet sound of piss hitting dirt. He wrestles out of his jacket, dumps it into the backseat. The air out here’s humid, thick with summertime, and it smells like warm soil, like growing things, a little like fertilizer, and he scrapes his teeth over his lower lip. He could wait. Tomorrow they’ll grab a motel, they’ll need to clean up before they do the whole suited-up song and dance with the coroner, and he could have himself clean and soft and ready for Sam. He could wait.

When Sam zips up and comes back over, Dean’s standing on his side of the car, leaned up against the bulk of it. “Your Hilton come with room service?” Sam says, and just like that Dean reaches out and snags him by the belt loops, drags him in close so he stumbles into Dean’s body, the weight of him crushing Dean momentarily against the car. “Whoa,” Sam gets out, but even as he braces a hand on the car behind Dean and tries to push up Dean’s on his mouth, his own mouth as soft and plush as he can make it. Sam kisses back, of course he does. It’s an automatic response, at this point. His breath’s sour-sleepy, but so what. It’s Sam. Dean fumbles his belt back open, working the leather smooth with all his practice, and Sam pulls back, says, “Here? Really?” but not like he wants to stop Dean, and not even surprised, really, though he sucks in a breath when Dean slides down against the car, sinks down to his haunches with his legs spread wide around Sam’s, his back supported and his mouth in just the right place. It’s a matter of a moment for him to tug the jeans and Sam’s stupid boxers out of the way, for him to get Sam all big and soft in his hand, balls hanging heavy below, full, waiting, and Sam says, “Are you sure—” but then Dean’s already leaning in and sucking him down, sucking him in, and Sam shuts right up with a strangled noise, loud and punchy from the back of his throat.

Fuck. Dean drops his jaw, makes his tongue soft and flat. Sam’s big, even soft, and he gets bigger, and even like this it’s so much. The taste is salty-bitter, the smell so strong down here, and he suckles soft, draws back until he can lip at the head, flick his tongue over the soft-firm ridge while it plumps up, Sam’s want swelling in his hand. Long fingers stroke through his hair, come around and cup the back of his head, and Sam says, “Dean,” quiet. Dean hums. Sam’s hips flex, a nice slow thrust that rocks him over Dean’s tongue, and—oh, god, that’s so exactly what he wants.

He pulls back, licks his lips wet, and when he looks up Sam’s watching him, hair all screwed up and backlit by the moon, and Dean can’t see his face, not really. “Come on, Sammy,” he says, and it’s already hoarse but he can’t help that, it’s just—he just wants it, so bad, and he can’t say it out loud but Sam gets it, he understands, and he pushes in closer, knocks Dean back so that his shoulders hit the car door and he’s still got that hand on Dean’s head so it’s cushioned when he’s pressed all the way to the steel, and with his other hand he grabs his dick, hard all the way now, and feeds it straight into Dean’s mouth, no stopping, so Dean’s filled to the throat all at once and he gags, swallowing, but then Sam rocks in again, keeping Dean’s head exactly in its place, and Dean just closes his eyes, holds onto Sam’s hips and gives in to it.

God, it’s perfect. Sam doesn’t hold back, anymore. He keeps up a steady, shoving pace, and Dean lets his lips go soft, breathes through his nose and sinks into how his mouth’s straining at the corners, the way the thick vein drags over his tongue with every thrust. Velvety wet skin and the bitter tang starting to bleed in the back of his throat, Sam breathing hard above him, so thick and insistent and that something settles, deep in Dean’s chest. Mm, god. Sammy. His thighs are starting to ache but it doesn’t matter; his jaw’s already sore, but it doesn’t matter. A thumb comes and presses against his mouth, at the corner where he’s leaking spit as it gets shoved out of him, plays with the fat swell of his bottom lip as Sam drags the fat weight of himself over it and it’s all good, it’s all just exactly what Dean needs. Sam groans, above him, shoves in harder, and Dean makes his throat as open as he can and thinks, tomorrow, tomorrow he’ll lube himself up and stretch himself out and lay down flat on the motel bed and Sam will come out of the shower and then he’ll be filled up, again, he’ll be pierced through and through and Sam will lay all his weight on Dean and move in him slow and whisper in his ear _is that good, is that want you want, you just want to get filled up, don’t you_ and Dean won’t have to say a word because Sam knows, he knows, that as long as they’re alive and together and the world’s dark all around them that Sam is all Dean has ever needed and will ever need, no matter what comes—but right now Sam shoves in and holds, breathing hard and harsh over Dean’s head, and with his nose brushing short crisp hair and his breath stopped in his chest Dean sucks, makes his lips tight and presses his tongue up hard against the underside and hums his pure pleasure and Sam comes like that, groaning, hips jerking and balls unloading into Dean’s throat. Bitter-salt, full, and his hips pump so that Dean can’t keep it all in his mouth, but it’s so good he can’t begrudge that.

Sam pulls him up before he’s done cleaning up, and while he’s still groaning at the ache in his suddenly-stretched legs Sam’s kissing him, licking in where his lips are buzzing-sore. A big hand slides down and covers where he’s hard, grips tight over the bulge. He moans into Sam’s mouth, and moans when Sam pulls back, and when he finally opens his eyes there’s just enough moonlight for him to see dimples, even though Sam’s just barely smiling. “Get what you needed?” he says, quiet, and Dean licks his lips, and nods. “Yeah,” Sam says, and drags his thumb over Dean’s mouth, smearing the plump of it easy and wet. “Maybe give me a little warning, next time you’re that desperate.”

Dean should say—something. _You’re desperate_ , maybe. He takes a deep breath, sore and content, held caught between Sam’s two hands. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, voice shredded, and just melts back into the car when Sam kisses him again.

 


End file.
